


And Every Year, Green

by Leidolette



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Child Death, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leidolette/pseuds/Leidolette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The harvest is always good in the Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Every Year, Green

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the fest itsgettingdark in response to this prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> _Characters who are usually portrayed as good or at least neutral showing their hidden dark side, be it cannibalistic or children-stealing hobbits, poisoner Elrond, mind-controlling Galadriel, grief-maddened Queen Dís being the terror of the neighbouring kingdoms (and her own) or whatever else you come up with!_  
>  I know this is not really specific, but the more twisted and unconventional, the better. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> The fest appears to be now defunct, but this fic is still dedicated to the anonymous prompter.

A child, born on the wrong day, entered into the world. 

"A boy," said the pleased father to a fellow worker as he stacked bundles of firewood at the market. "Born last night. He's a good weight, and seems healthy." 

The new father's friend slapped him on the back and offered heartfelt congratulations. Two stalls down, there was a Hobbit woman, Porterella Burrows, in Bree to trade for kitchen spices that she could not grow in her own garden. Her eyes remained fixed on the tiny vials of cinnamon and nutmeg in front of her, but all her hearing was now trained on the conversation happening between the two Men. She learned that the father already had several other children, and that this son will be named after his wife's grandfather: James.

Porterella took her chosen spices over to the human woman manning the stall. "Pray," the Hobbit said to the woman as she wrapped the purchases, "Do you happen to know the names of those woodcutters over there? It's just that if my husband's back continues to pain him the way it has, we may be in need of the services of a woodcutter before the winter arrives. I would like to return and ask for them by name if the injury persists."

Bree was a small town, and those that worked the market everyday knew each other. "The one on the right is Mr. Appledore and the other is Mr. Rushlight." And then, since Mr. Appledore was her cousin, the woman added: "Both men are fine workers, madam, and will do the job admirably."

Porterella smiled. "I'm sure, thank you kindly," she said as she departed. _Mr. Rushlight,_ she thought on the road back to Hobbiton. _And his son's name is James. James Rushlight._

The child born yesterday, on the unluckiest of days, was called James Rushlight.

Though she wished to get home as soon as possible, for it looked like rain, Porterella Burrows took the long way home, on the road that went past the great smials of the Tooks. 

The Thain must be informed. The cycle must begin.

* * *

Eight years later, on a sunny day in late spring, little James Rushlight went out into the fallow fields on the edge of the Brandywine River and didn't return home for supper. When a search party was sent out, they called all night and never found him. In the morning light, the missing boy's older sister found his shoes on the bank of the river. 

After a few days with no further discoveries, the general consensus in the town slowly solidified into assuming young James had drowned. It had been a very warm day, the day that he had disappeared, and children often swam in the shallow areas of the river when they could slip away from their summer chores. 

And there was no reason to assume someone with ill intent had targeted this particular boy from this particular family. James was an average village boy in just about every way. His family was always able to keep the children shod and well-fed, but they were no wealthier than their neighbors and had no extra coins to be parted from. 

In the following months, no further disappearances followed, and eventually the loss of James faded into village history, and ceased to be a concern for anyone but the Rushlight family.

Sometimes, children just die.

* * *

Stewartia Boffin pulled up a weed with her hoe and slowly walked up and down the rows of her large garden in search of more. A bead of sweat trickled down her neck.

"Good morning to you!"

Stewartia looked up at Thain Ferumbras, who was pulling up along the road in a smart-looking wagon pulled by a grey pony. She straightened her back and took off her hat to wipe the sweat from her forehead. "And a good morning to you too, Thain!" She smiled. "What brings you out this way?"

"Oh, just making the rounds and delivering the new offering."

"That time already?" she asked, mildly surprised.

"Yes, yes, the ceremony was completed just last night. The Cycle does seem to get shorter every time though, doesn't it? Well, I guess that's what happens when you reach our age; the years go faster and Cycles come quicker."

"Oh, hush; you're not a day over seventy five," Stewartia said affectionately. 

Having finished the comforting pleasantries that made up a large part of his duties in office, the Thain reached back into the bed of the wagon and picked up a red cloth sack from a pile of about three dozen others. He delivered the sack into Stewartia's waiting hands.

"I'm sure you don't need any reminders on what to do with it, am I right?" he asked.

She waved him off gently. "Certainly not. I think I know my way around the whole business by now."

The Thain smiled. "Glad to hear it. I must ask, you know, to ensure that everything is done properly."

"Yes," Stewartia said, looking truly solemn for moment. "It's just too important." 

After that acknowledgement, Stewartia's usual cheerful disposition returned. She took another glance at the pile of sacks in the wagon behind him. "I suppose I should let you continue with your rounds now; there's quite a few left to go."

"Oh, it'll go faster than you think. Onto Bag End next."

After a farewell and a wave, the Thain's pony was once again trotting along the well-maintained road.

Stewartia waited until the Thain was well on his way to the next home, and all the dust from his wagon settled, before she took a peek in the bag. 

_Ah,_ Stewartia thought. _The jawbone. How nice._

* * *

It was no surprise. No surprise why the fields grew so green in the Shire, why the vines are so heavy with tomatoes and peas, why the apples were so big and so, _so_ red. 

A living thing put under the earth. Like a fish. Like fish that were buried up and down among the fields of oats and wheat, living things put back into the ground nourish the earth. 

Sometimes fertilizer was fish. Sometimes it was something bigger than a fish.

And maybe a long bone or two peaked up through the soil in the springtime when the fields are tilled. But that was no matter, cool spring rains wash them away, or they were gradually be broken up beneath the feet of the plow horse.

The earth had a pulse. Slow, but strong, and Hobbits could sense it, feel it in their being. The earth talked.

It said there was nothing without blood. Not even among the rolling hills of the Shire.


End file.
